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" "How so?" asked the other, distrustfully. At this moment, a coach passed them, and was instantly hailed by Thames. Ennison looked down on him in disgust. The spirit I drink may be poison,—it may kill me,—perhaps it is killing me:—but so would hunger, cold, misery,—so would my own thoughts. Her aunt arrived about halfpast ten, in black and with an unusually thick spotted veil. She crouched beneath a stump, her extremities twitching as the sun set orange and blue beyond the lace of iron-black trees. Nothing, however, could be discerned, except the crumbling brickwork. It’s one of their worst traits, one of their very worst.
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